


A Worthy Place

by xpityx



Series: A Worthy Place [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (because emperors don't negotiate), Light Bondage, M/M, Undernegotiated Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 06:04:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10327385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xpityx/pseuds/xpityx
Summary: Emhyr was pleased that the master witcher had at least seen fit to bathe and shave before sitting down to eat with them. He could not count the number of times he had been near the man and had had to breathe steadily through his mouth when his attention was elsewhere to avoid the smell of horse.





	1. Chapter 1

 

Cirilla had been sharing gossip over dinner - nothing of import of course, especially to a man as uninterested in politics as Geralt of Rivia, but she was now weaving an outrageous story of revenge regarding a fictitious prized pet and a member of an equally fictitious Upper House. Geralt was swinging between credulity and mirth when Emhyr interjected to calmly verify Cirilla’s lies, which was unfortunately too much for the Crown Princess and she immediately burst into peals of laughter.

 

Emhyr smiled to himself, it was worth suffering Geralt's company for the evening to hear Cirilla laugh so freely.

 

“Your face, Geralt! As if anyone would swear an oath of blood debt over a _shaved cat!_ ”

 

“I've heard stranger,” the man in question replied: he seemed to be sulking.

 

Emhyr was pleased that the master witcher had at least seen fit to bathe and shave before sitting down to eat with them. He could not count the number of times he had been near the man and had had to breathe steadily through his mouth when his attention was elsewhere to avoid the smell of horse.

 

Emhyr reached for the last roast quail, as Cirilla continued to mock her former teacher, who had began a seemingly equally preposterous story regarding a poet, a catfish and a curse.

 

Without even turning his head, Geralt reached out and placed a hand on Emhyr’s arm, stopping him from bringing the small bird to his mouth. Emhyr was too shocked to protest: no-one touched the Emperor without express invitation.

 

“That is spoiled.” the witcher stated with certainty.

 

“How do you know?” Emhyr demanded, “By smell?” He had heard Cirilla speak of enhanced witcher senses, but had never seen evidence of them before now.

 

“Do you usually eat everything they bring you?” Geralt asked, instead of answering the question.

 

“No, of course not.” Emhyr replied: he would be the size of two men if he even attempted to eat every dish served.

 

“And there is no way the kitchen staff could have known beforehand that I was to dine with you?”

 

“Perhaps it is simply a mistake,” Cirilla suggested, though Emhyr had seen what Geralt had seen: good meat covering bad: kitchen servants saving money on cheaper birds and meat and covering it with the good cuts.

 

Emhyr looked up from his plate and was caught in the witcher’s gaze, his mind obviously having followed the same path: bad meat could be fatal, therefore this was treason, or close enough as to make no difference. The sanction would be severe, but he could see that Geralt would desire for him to be lenient, or at least discover if the intent had been malicious or not before handing down a punishment. Emhyr nodded once in recognition of the witcher, and Geralt titled his head in acknowledgement.

 

After checking five other bowls of meat, Geralt identified another three instances where the cuts at the bottom were either spoilt or close to it.

 

They bid goodnight to each other soon after, Emhyr leaving Cirilla to walk Geralt to his guest suite - he would be gone in the morning, back to sleeping in flea-pits and being spat upon by ignorant villagers no doubt.

 

Emhyr banished the witcher from his thoughts and retired to his study to speak in private to his head chamberlain.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

With six guards stood around his bed, only the closed, heavy drapes gave the illusion of privacy as Emhyr took his hard length in hand. He thought of nothing in particular at first, concentrating only on the feeling of pleasure for pleasure's sake. As he moved closer to completion he called up his sense of satisfaction at his orders being carried out to the letter; the moment when someone under his command followed a path that he or she disagreed with simply because he, _Emhyr_ var Emreis, had shifted events for it to be so.

 

He thought of the hundred thousand winning plays he had made.

 

Then, unbidden, an image of Geralt rose into his mind: the witcher's hand tight around Emhyr's wrist and the authority in his voice as he had spoken.

 

Following on the trails of the memory he imagined Geralt under him, the witcher’s erection trapped beneath his own body: Emhyr placing one knee into the meat and muscle of his arse cheek and leaning all his weight on it - perhaps the choked off moan Geralt would make: half pain half need... He had seen Geralt fight when he trained with Cirilla in the courtyard on occasion, he could easily imagine his grunts of exertion turned to a more sexual bent. He pictured Geralt writhing underneath him, bought into his bed by some promise he had made or some terrible bet he had lost: wanting Emhyr despite himself, asking, begging for the emperor’s touch, even knowing all the terrible acts he had carried out, by his own hand or another’s…

 

Emhyr reached his peak quicker than he had meant to, spilling over himself and gasping.

 

For a second he debated if this new facet of his interest in the witcher was a problem, before dismissing it as a singular event, a harmless indulgence and nothing more, and rising for the day.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

The next day found Emhyr drinking Nilfgaardian tea, black as mud and generally only potable with a significant amount of honey. It had sometimes been used as a background test of sorts for a suitor. One betrayed one's roots when offered a cup, in that those who ignored the proffered honey came from a poorer background than those who added three measures of the expensive delicacy to their tea. It had taken weeks for Cirilla to train herself out of wincing when drinking the honeyed version.

 

Geralt, of course drank his unsweetened. 

Emhyr was pulled out of his thoughts by an abbreviated knock, followed by the entrance of his Captain of the Imperial Guard.

 

“We have found him, your Majesty,” Thirdur declared, whilst offering a bow, “He gave word that he had left the city, but we discovered him hiding in a woodshed near his family's home.”

 

“And he confessed?” Emhyr enquired, not that it mattered either way.

 

“Yes, your Majesty, it was exactly as you said: he was ordering substandard meats and keeping the difference to pay his debts, however he had not been doing so for long.”

 

Emhyr considered for a moment: treason was an easy conclusion to come to, especially for so idiotic a crime, but death was perhaps a step too far in the circumstances. Cirilla would certainly not be appreciative of such an outcome considering the context of the offence. Perhaps theft was the better route to take.

 

“Cut off his right hand”, he commanded, an order and dismissal in one, but as he looked down at his bittersweet tea, he thought of the witcher again with his keen senses and his keener sense of justice.

 

“No,” he decided as Thirdur began to bow a final time and leave, “The left.”

 

The Head of the Imperial Guard acknowledged the change with a nod, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving Emhyr to finish his tea in silence.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Hours later, the sun had began to cast long shadows that ran up the walls and into Emhyr's rooms as he read and signed decrees that a servant handed to him, one by one.

 

Cirilla entered his study in a foul temper, as evidenced by her lack of greeting and her gait, which gave the impression she was wearing two swords strapped to her back.

 

“He owed debts,” she spat without preamble once she reached his desk.

 

Emhyr gestured to the servant that he was done for the day, but waited until she had bowed deeply and shut the door behind her before speaking.

 

“Yes,” Emhyr answered, once they were alone.

 

“He owed debts, but stayed with his family once he had been found out.”

 

“That is also true,” he acknowledged.

 

“He will not be able to pay them now.”

 

“It is unlikely, yes.”

 

Cirilla stared at him, her anger not abated one inch by his calm answers.

 

Emhyr sighed in defeat and put down his inkpen, “He could have spoken to the head of the kitchen staff, or to the housekeeper, he could have even have asked for an audience with myself or yours. He had many pathways open to him, and yet this is the one he chose.”

 

The Crown Princess held her silence.

 

Emhyr rose from his desk to walk around it to the chair Cirilla was sat in, and touched the scarred side of her face, “There is no need to worry, my daughter, they will love you when it is time for you to sit on the throne.”

 

She looked up at him sharply, “But they will _fear_ you first.”

 

Emhyr smiled, and then went back to sit behind his desk, continuing with the report he had been reading before Cirilla had entered. “Go into the city with a guard and speak to the family of the chef,” he said, without looking up, “offer to pay the family's debt if the situation troubles you so.”

 

He felt Cirilla's eyes on him she continued to watch him for long seconds, then she rose stiffly from the chair and left him to his work.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

Emhyr lurched upright in bed, panting as if he had run up all thousand steps of the Great Spire.

 

He had dreamt that he was paralysed, not even able to blink, and there had been a great weight on his chest that had slowly unfolded out of the darkness. A massive, hunched creature sat on him, preventing him from drawing a full breath. As he had gasped it had dug its filthy claws into his skin, shredding the cloth he wore and the skin beneath – the pain had been such that it had ripped him into wakefulness.

 

His guards would not disturb him unless he called out for them, so he lit a lamp, pleased to see that his hands were steady despite the adrenaline. He was cold, his bed seemingly more draughty than usual despite the heavy drapes. He reached to pull the bedclothes higher, and froze as he felt the tattered edges of his nightshirt.

 

He forced calm on himself, there was no creature here – it could not have gotten past his guards, and the drapes themselves were woven with protective sigils, therefore there was some other, logical explanation. He stripped off the shirt and lay it out in front of him: there were eight bloody rents in the fabric: he slapped a hand to his bare chest, but his skin was smooth and whole.

 

He bowed his head, debating the safety of leaving his bed, of the relative safety of informing his body guards of the incident balanced against a perceived weakness or worse, their disbelief. No, he will keep this to himself for the moment.

 

His Heir was a witcher and the Lady of Space and Time, after all.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Three days later he had still not broached the topic with either Cirilla or his own mages, despite ample opportunity and a repeat of the nightmare and rent clothing.

 

He was listening with one ear to a routine report being given to him by Head of his Imperial Guard, when he realised that he had another option.

 

“Will that be all, your Highness?”

 

Emhyr brought himself back to the here and now without any indication he had been giving anything other than his full attention. “No. Send out someone to find Geralt of Rivia, head west and ask among the poorer villages. Convey that that all is well here, but there is a contract waiting for him should he so wish.”

 

Thirdur was too good of a solider to question his orders, he simply bowed and hastened to do as he was bid.

 

Emhyr  returned to his work, pleased with his solution. Cirilla was due to travel to Redania  to visit the High Houses there shortly,  a precursor to her first state visits that were planned for three months hence , and it would not due to worry her with such a trivial matter as an unsettling dream.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

By the time the witcher had arrived, twice more the creature had slashed into his dreams, and twice more he had awoken with blood on his clothing but no wounds to show for it. Emhyr had rotated the body guards that stood in his rooms at night, but it seemed to make no difference to when the dreams came.

 

Geralt now stood in the middle of Emhyr's bedchamber with a torn nightshirt in one hand.

 

“And you're sure there are no visible wounds or marks?”

 

This was the second time Geralt had asked such a question, which was obviously the one he could bring himself to ask rather than, “please take off your jacket and shirt and show me” which was what he  seemed to be inching towards.

 

Emhyr sighed and unlaced his shirt far enough to be able to bare his unmarked chest. Geralt nodded, slightly distracted by the sigils on the drapes around the bed whilst Emhyr put himself together. Geralt put one knee onto the bed as he leant to get a better look at something or other and the image Emhyr had conjured only days before of the witcher naked in his bed suddenly rose up in his mind's eye.

 

“Do you need me for anything else?” He enquired, abruptly desirous to be anywhere else but here. 

 

Geralt looked back at him, more considering than Emhyr would have liked, “No, I will  come find you when I'm done here.”

 

Emhyr nodded and made his way back to his study, determinedly thinking only of the Trade Corp orations' latest machinations. 

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

“Any gifts?” Emhyr echoed, later that afternoon, unsure if Geralt was being sincere or not in his question.

 

“Yes, anything at all you have been given in the last three to four weeks?” the witcher replied, with every appearance of seriousness.

 

“I am the Emperor of the North and South, the most powerful person in the world, two million people live and die under my rule: I am given many gifts.”

 

Geralt simply raised an eyebrow at him.

 

Emhyr sighed to show his annoyance and started to list the gifts his chamberlain had thought well enough of to pass on to his majesty in the last fortnight.

 

Geralt listened until Emhyr was done and added, “That is not the whole list, you have missed items that you would usually be given in the course your day: the soap you use, fresh ink, a sharper dagger – anything that you use often and is new could be the source of the spell.”

 

Emhyr regarded the witcher for a moment. Geralt withstood his regard where most men and women would falter.

 

He  turned and rang for his head chamberlain, who materialised promptly from a side door. 

 

“Mererid, Geralt wishes to inspect my soap, see to is that he is accommodated.”

 

The chamberlain's eyes didn't so much as flicker at the odd request, “As you wish, your majesty,” he bowed and left, followed by an amused Geralt.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Emhyr walked into the sitting room, having told himself for the last three hours that Geralt would come to him the second he had found something, and that there was no need for him to go looking for the witcher.

 

The man in question was passing his hands seemingly at random over the odd assortment of gifts and necessities that the servants had gathered. As he watched, the witcher picked up a inkpen and placed it on a side table along with a few other items that sat there.

 

“Have you come across a curse such as this before?”

 

Geralt glanced up, showing no particular surprise at Emhyr's entrance.

 

“Only once, and I had not believed it possible before that.”

 

As Emhyr watched, Geralt whittled the number of items down to three, which he now examined one by one: a set of silk handkerchiefs that had been a gift from Lady Leuvaarden from the Guild on the last feast of The Sun, three new inkpens, bought from the markets by a servant; and a vial of oil, made by Emhyr’s  h ead  h erbalist,  t he chief use of which was as an aid to smooth the way when he brought himself to release. Emhyr was able to keep any hint of embarrassment off his face as Geralt regarded the vial this way and that, holding it up to the light. There was no possible way that the witcher could know what it was for and yet, when he looked up, it was with a smile in his eyes and laughter in his voice, “Do you get through many quantities of this oil, your highness?”

 

Emhyr strode forward two steps and snatched the vial away in one quick movement and put it forcefully back onto the table.

 

“ If you are quite done, master witcher, perhaps you should consider that it is ill advised to mock the purse that pays you,” he snapped.

 

Geralt looked taken aback before standing and moving close enough to Emhyr to place a steady hand on his shoulder,  “ I’m sorry, Emhyr - it was said in jest, and you are not paying me: I do n't charge my friends.” 

 

He squeezed once before letting go and walking out of the rooms, undoubtedly to investigate the bedchamber again.

 

Emhyr remained where he was and, once he was sure the witcher was gone, permitted himself to close his eyes for a second, before turning to attend to other matters.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

A few hours later, he turned the small polished emerald stone that Geralt had placed on his desk over in his hand, running his thumb over the broken cross and six point star engraved on either side.

 

“Are you sure?” Emhyr queried.

 

Geralt executed a minimal shrug, “There's not much else it could be – cursing an object is a difficult piece of spellwork, I have only ever seen one such case where the curse was wrought well enough to be dangerous. I imagine this is a failed attempt at something similar.”

 

“Or a warning,” Emhyr mused to himself.

 

Geralt shrugged again, undoubtedly uninterested in the exact reasoning behind the attempt, only the means to undo it.

 

“And to lift the curse?” Emhyr prompted.

 

“An exorcism.” 

 

Emhyr waited, but the witcher didn't elaborate.

 

“An exorcism of course, it is clear to me now, thank you for your help, Master Witcher.”

 

Geralt sighed as if Emhyr was asking him to assassinate the High Priestess, instead of requesting that he explain the process of lifting the curse.

 

“I think the best time to perform the exorcism will be whilst you are actually caught in the dream.”

 

_Ah,_ reflected Emhyr,  _perhaps the suggestion that he perform magic on a sleeping Emperor may be cause for some hesitation._ He was not looking forward to explaining this plan to his body guards or to  Mererid.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

What was unnerving about having Geralt of Rivia stood to the left of his bed was less that he had two razor sharp swords strapped to his back as Emhyr prepared to sleep, and more that Emhyr was  _not at all_ uneasy that he had two razor sharp swords strapped to his back as he prepared to sleep. He had examined his own reaction from every side and come to the simple conclusion that Geralt's moral code would never let him kill a sleeping man, and certainly not one who had asked for his aid. 

 

Both Mererid and  Thirdur had been supremely sceptical of the plan, but in the end the emperor's word was law.

 

Of course, he was now having more difficulty than he cared to admit trying to slip into sleep, as he found himself trying to pick out the sound of Geralt's breathing amongst his other guards. He had considered throwing out everyone except the witcher, but Mererid would have been apoplectic, and furthermore he was not sure of his own motivations for such an order, so he had resigned himself to the fact that he would be sleeping with a larger audience than he would have preferred.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

When he awoke he instantly wished he had faced Mererid's wrath and made sure that there was no-one to witness this particular indignity. He assumed the chest he was leaning against was Geralt's and, as such, the arm around his waist also belonged to the witcher. He could feel his own racing heartbeat echoed in the man behind him, and the smell of blood touched his senses.

 

Additionally, six bodyguards stood around his bed, staring through the shredded drapes and assiduously trying not to meet his gaze. He sighed and began to disentangle himself from Geralt, who seemed to be in no great hurry to remove himself from Emhyr's bed.

 

“Were you as successful in your endeavour as you were in destroying my bedchamber?” Emhyr enquired, as he put on a dressing gown over his ruined nightclothes. 

 

“Well, something that looked like the bastard offspring of a drowner and a massive, particularly ugly cat appeared in your bed, slashed at everything in sight, and then screamed like a banshee and faded into nothing when I ran it through with my sword.”

 

Ah, well, that would go some way to explain why his bodyguards were looking so very disconcerted.

 

Emhyr finally gave in to his earlier instinct that this would have been a little better for his reputation without the audience.

 

“Leave us” he ordered. 

 

He turned his back to change his nightclothes and, turning whilst tying his dressing gown, found Geralt studying the bed hangings with rather forced attention, a faint blush on his features.  _ Well, something to think on later, perhaps.  _

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Emhyr had informed the Captain for the night that he was moving rooms and had taken up in his second bedchamber, which was also well warded, with Geralt,  and only Geralt, once again on guard to check that the exorcism had worked. 

 

He had eventually fallen asleep as dawn was starting to pink the light as it crept around the draped windows. He awoke abruptly, his heartbeat racing as he immediately realised that he was not in his usual room and that he was lacking in bodyguards, until he  spotted the witcher asleep in a chair near his bed, snoring softly. 

 

Emhyr was also hard underneath the weight of his nightclothes.

 

The remembered feeling of Geralt's arm around his waist last night, solid as an iron bar, the faint blush on his skin when Emhyr had changed clothing, the handful of times Geralt had touched Emhyr without permission or reason, these were the things he thought of, but most of all it was the impropriety of taking himself in hand when the  man himself slept only an  arm's span away. 

 

He could imagine the horror on Geralt's face if he knew, or a heavier weight would be his disappointment.  _ Yes _ , Emhyr thought as his strokes became rougher,  _ what would it take to truly disappoint him, I wonder? Could such an emotion be turned into hate? Into anger and corruption? _

 

He could see it, how he could turn this good man into something else, something lesser. A suggestion here, a revelation there, it would not take much to upset Geralt’s carefully balanced worldview.

 

He turned his face into his pillow to muffle his moan as he reached his climax.

 

Emhyr checked that Geralt remained asleep as he wiped himself down and re-dressed in something more suitable for leaving his rooms. He called for a servant to change his bedding and bring something for the witcher to break his fast with as he then made he way down to the hot springs that ran beneath the palace.

 

A hot soak was what he needed after such a night, and some time to think on the problem of his heightened regard for Geralt of Rivia would be useful, as his mind seemed to be running away from him as of late. A fantasy or two was inevitable when one spent most of  one's time in the company of those who either feared or hated him to some greater o r lesser degree, and Geralt's lack of either could be as refreshing as it was annoying. However, any true regard would be unacceptable weakness: this was a man who spent much of hi s time putting himself in the way of the greatest danger he could find: any rumour that Emhyr held him in high regard would be akin to painting a target on the man's back. No, Geralt will leave this evening and come back to visit Cirilla on occasion, and that w ould be the exten t  of their interaction. 

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Emhyr had always used courtesy like a blade, shined and sharp, and he was as polite and as distant as he had ever been once Geralt had availed himself of the palace's hot springs and good food and was ready to depart.

 

The dishonesty of the distance did not trouble Emhyr in the slightest. He was not about to reveal his base desires to anyone, especially someone so unlikely to return them and so wholly unsuited to such a role: he was sure that Geralt had tricked a monster or two in his time and called it truth.

 

Emhyr was a master of self-control, and it did not fail him as Geralt bowed and left. He kept his eyes on his reading and did not think of the witcher once during the long evening of the minutiae that kept his kingdom safe and whole.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

They had begun a game of sparrow some time ago, speaking a little of curses and politics, interspersed with the clacking of bone tiles. They had then spoken of the outcome of Emhyr's investigation into the perpetrator of the curse, which had come to a conclusion some three months after Geralt had left. He had kept the details vague, which he imagined the witcher had picked up on, in order to avoid offending his sometimes squeamish sensibilities. In Emhyr's opinion, an unwavering belief in a set morality was for peasants, priests and children.

 

Geralt had arrived in the early afternoon, smelling of soap and seemingly well aware that Cirilla was not in residence, and would not be for another month at least. He had been in turns charming and witty, and seemed to be making an effort to avoid topics of conversation that usually ended with Cirilla having to unsubtly change the subject.

 

If he did not know better, he would say that this was a clumsy attempt at seduction, or Geralt testing the waters at the very least. Emhyr was more shocked than he had been in many years. He had had it on good authority that the witcher exclusively fucked women. There had been allegations of a dalliance or two with men when Geralt had been much younger, but that information had come from sources in the North where they had unfortunately backward attitudes towards the propriety of same sex liaisons, and therefore was just as likely to be an attempt to cast aspersions on his character as a truthful account.

 

Emhyr briefly debated abandoning the witcher, claiming pressing matters and leaving this path unwalked, but after a second's thought he could see no harm in seeing where it would lead them: it had been many months since they had last crossed paths and Emhyr had not thought of him once in the intervening time.

 

Two bottles of very good wine later, mostly consumed by a visibly more relaxed Geralt, and Emhyr was still undecided as to if the witcher was building to something or if Emhyr had sunk low enough to be mistaking his own desire for another’s. Of course, Geralt chose that moment to close the distance between them and kiss him. It was chaste, and Emhyr held himself as still as stone, temporarily paralysed by the sheer numbers of future possibilities branching out from this single moment, too many for him to account for.

 

Geralt pulled back. “Shit, I've made a fool of myself, haven't I?” he said, wryly.

 

Emhyr hesitated still, before shaking his head slowly, “not at all.”

 

Geralt regarded him seriously for a second before leaning in for another light kiss. Emhyr reeled the worst of his desires in, and kissed him back, careful to keep his teeth to himself, not to dig his fingers into the meat of Geralt’s shoulders.

  
Perhaps h e could not have the whole of this man, but he could have this. 

  
  
~*~*~ 

 

  
A week after their brief tryst Emhyr was unable to prevent his head from snapping up when Mererid announced his visitor. He stood as Geralt entered, the witcher fumbling through some pretext for his being there that he gave up the second Emhyr reached for him. It occurred to him to make sure they had at least the semblance of privacy, and then Geralt was kissing him and he somehow lost the trail of his thinking.

 

Geralt dropped to his knees and began unlacing Emhyr's breeches with a kind of determined focus that frayed Emhyr's iron self-control. He had been as restrained as he could manage the first time they had fucked, but he could no longer remember why he had denied himself this: he fisted his hand into the back of Geralt’s hair and dragged his head back so that Geralt understood where Emhyr wanted him and shifted until he was kneeling in front of the desk. Emhyr kept his hand in Geralt’s hair, making sure that his own knuckles were positioned to take the brunt of his thrusts, and then placed his other hand on the desk to brace himself and began to brutally fuck Geralt’s mouth. The witcher twisted his hands into the back of Emhyr’s clothing and grunted with effort as he swallowed his full length.

 

Emhyr, who could not look at an action without seeing the possible consequences fall before him like the pieces on a game board, lost himself entirely in the sensation of heat and suction until he reached his climax.

 

He eventually pulled away and Geralt wiped his face and coughed a little - Emhyr reached for the half drunk glass of water on his desk and passed it down. He wanted to hold the cup himself, for Geralt to drink from his hand, but he equally did not wish reveal any more of his desires than he had already to the other man.

 

He wanted this though, this give and take, in that Geralt would give and Emhyr would take and take and it would never be enough. Emhyr liked to think that he was sufficiently self-aware to know that if half the world had not satisfied him then anything less than the full scope of Geralt’s attention would equally not suffice.

 

Emhyr took the glass away from him before the witcher had drank his fill, and then sitting, kissed him soundly whilst stroking him roughly to completion.

 

Geralt grinned at him, afterwards, drunk on pleasure and a little pain, Emhyr thought, as he leant forward and kissed him again.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Two days later Emhyr sat on a rough ledge of stone, shoulder deep in the hot springs that ran naturally under the palace. He was made warmer by the heat of the man who sat between his outstretched legs, leaning forwards as Emhyr dug his thumbs into one of the many the knots of muscle that plagued the witcher. Emhyr had offered the service whilst still somewhat equable after a particularly good fuck and, once he was slightly more cognisant as to what he had agreed to, had made sure that Geralt was aware that this service was readily available to him via trained servants, lest he think that he was entitled to being massaged by an emperor whenever he saw fit.

 

They had spent most of yesterday in bed, alternately fucking and eating whilst Geralt told increasingly improbable stories of hunts he had been on. Geralt had even allowed Emhyr to feed him a few morsels by hand, his eyes knowing as he licked Emhyr's fingers clean, which had of course led to more sex – Emhyr pinning Geralt with his body as he had fucked the witcher with deep, slow thrusts.

 

Emhyr had worked late in order to satisfy his treasurer that a single day's rest had not resulted in the earth plummeting into perpetual darkness, whilst Geralt, judging from the whispered conversations of some of his guards, had spent much of the day training in the yard.

 

His hands found the edge of three distinct claw marks that splayed across Geralt's lower back as he continued with the massage he was beginning to think he had been manipulated into giving.

 

“Gods below, that's good,” Geralt groaned.

 

“You're aware that I have a whole set of servants specifically trained in this skill?” Emhyr enquired as he massaged the rope of scar tissue as it looped around the witcher's side.

 

“Yes, you've said, Emhyr, several times now in fact.” Geralt replied wryly, as he leant over slightly to give the Emperor better access.

 

Emhyr carried on in silence for a few minutes. He could almost feel the cogs turning as Geralt debated the best way to approach whatever terrible thing it was that he was hesitating to bring up. Perhaps the witcher was more wily than Emhyr gave him credit for: if one thought that a difficult conversation was made less so by a lack of eye contact, then he deftly had been manoeuvred into a setup that avoided exactly that.

 

Emhyr finally grew impatient, “Whatever it is, it cannot be so bad a topic if you are thinking of raising it whilst we are both naked.”

 

Geralt stilled under his hands for a moment before turning his head far enough so their eyes met, “It's incredibly creepy when you do that.”

 

Emhyr smiled to himself as Geralt turned back to face front.

 

“Do you want to tie me up and fuck me?”

 

Emhyr felt his heart skip a beat once his conscious mind had registered the words. After only a few days of intimacy to have his desires laid bare in such a way was... it was almost unthinkable. He made himself continue to kneed the wet skin in front of him whilst he calmed himself.

 

“What makes you ask that?” he asked in his most even tone.

 

Geralt turned in his arms so they sat facing each other: a smile was tugging up one side of his mouth.

 

“Emhyr,” he said, with unacceptable tenderness.

 

Emhyr looked away for a second – he had not meant to share so much of himself with this man, this man to whom he was already in debt.

 

He turned back, “Yes, that is something I would like to do.”

 

Geralt grinned at him triumphantly, and then leaned in for a kiss.

 

 

~*~*~

 

“Are they tight enough?”

 

Geralt's muscles tensed as he tested the oiled ropes that bound his arms behind his back before nodding.

 

“Could you get out of them if you wished to?”

 

Geralt hesitated this time before answering in the affirmative, as if he were unsure which answer Emhyr desired.

 

Emhyr wanted to ask how long it would take him to escape his bonds if he put his mind to it, but held the question behind his teeth, mostly because he knew the idiot would answer if asked, as if he had not already given up too much valuable information to Emhyr regarding his witcher abilities.

 

He was learning that to Geralt, trust meant that he would sleep soundly even knowing that Emhyr stood behind him with a knife, which was a world away from what Emhyr meant by the sentiment.

 

To an emperor, trust meant knowing when someone would betray you, and how, and for what price, and no more.

 

Emhyr admired the view for a moment: Geralt knelt on the edge of the bed, naked except for the ropes around his arms and the tie that held his hair back. He was half hard already, and breathing a little too quickly. Emhyr himself was fully dressed, but he could feel his cock filling to full hardness within the confines of his clothing. He leant down from his position by the bed and kissed Geralt deeply for long minutes. When they were both panting, Emhyr knelt on the bed and unlaced his breeches, putting steady pressure on the back of Geralt's neck until his was sprawled out on his front with Emhyr's cock in his mouth. The witcher had almost no leverage without the use of his arms, so Emhyr put both hands on the side of Geralt's face and held him still so he could fuck up into his mouth. After a few trusts Geralt began hitching his hips in small circles, undoubtedly trying to get some friction onto his own hardness.

 

Emhyr pushed Geralt's head down until he could feel the other man's throat fluttering around his cock as he struggled against his gag reflex. Emhyr kept one hand on the back of his neck as he reached over to the side table with his other, dipping his fingers into the oil he had placed there for this exact purpose. After a few more breathless seconds of heat he let Geralt up, who immediately gasped as he lay with his head on Emhyr's thigh, fighting to regain his breath. Emhyr took the opportunity to lean over and force one slippery finger past the tightly ringed muscle of Geralt's ass.

 

“ _Fuck, emi hur kestaler!”_ Geralt swore, rather creatively.

 

“I assure you, I can name my entire lineage back to the days of the kings of old, so I think I would have noticed if there were any goats in my ancestry.”

 

Emhyr continued to fuck one finger in and out of Geralt's ass, who had started to move again and then stopped the second Emhyr had paused his ministrations. Emhyr smiled triumphantly to himself and added a second finger and then a third, while Geralt swore to himself every so often. He finally removed his fingers and manoeuvred the witcher around so he was still on his front but now facing away. Emhyr pulled apart Geralt's buttocks and held them open for a long moment, until Geralt's discomfort at being so on display became obvious:

 

“Are you going to fuck me or are you going to call for a portrait?” the witcher asked, testily.

 

Emhyr snorted and released him to oil his cock and then slid home with one powerful movement. Geralt groaned through his teeth as Emhyr began to fuck him with long slow thrusts that would not allow the witcher to reach release for some time.

 

It was mostly silent in the room, the usual sound of flesh hitting flesh muffled by Emhyr's clothing and the slow pace he had set. He had never have thought he'd find any intimacy in this, in this sweat and rutting, but here, with this man and the absolute trust he'd shown, he understood the power of it.

 

When Emhyr eventually pulled out so he could help Geralt turn over and lie uncomfortably on his bound arms, the witcher was a delightful mess: dried saliva smeared over his chin and cheeks, his hair snarled around his face. There was a faint blush running down his chest, and his cock was heavy and steadily leaking pearly white seed.

 

Geralt looked up as much as he was able and took in the emperor, “Sweet Melitele, you're still _dressed,_ ” he said, with something like despair.

 

Emhyr bared his teeth and thrust back into him, snapping his hips in an unrelenting rhythm that made the witcher whine high in the back of his throat. Neither of them would last long now.

 

They both reached climax within seconds of each other, Geralt losing himself the moment Emhyr wrapped his hand around his weeping cock. Emhyr leant over after, breathing heavily, and promised himself that he would move in a second to untie Geralt, but no sooner had he had the thought the man in question pulled his arms from their undoubtedly uncomfortable position behind his back, the ropes undone and trailing.

 

Emhyr raised an eyebrow whilst Geralt tried for nonchalance and overshot by some way to hit smug instead.

 

He was sweating in his clothes, but he knew that he looked fairly put together as he wiped himself off and re-laced his breeches . He then lay back down next to Geralt, who looked over at Emhyr whilst trying to massage some feeling back into his arms and rolled his eyes, “Fuck you,” Geralt said laughingly, and Emhyr could not resist leaning down for another kiss.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

“You’re staring again.”

 

“I am not.” Geralt was facing away with his head half covered by covers: there was no way he could sense a person's gaze.

 

The witcher snorted: “You can tattoo me, if you want,” he mumbled into his pillow, “property of the Emperor.”

 

Emhyr stilled and could not make himself move again. That he had been so obvious, that a simple witcher could read him so easily after such a limited time?

 

 _Ah,_ was the thought that whispered at the back of his mind, _but if he were so simple you would not have fallen quite so hard,_ _no_ _?_

 

Geralt sat up and looked at him, but Emhyr found he couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

 

“Hn, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” Geralt’s voice was insultingly understanding.

 

“Do not be ridiculous,” he asserted and went to roll off the other side of the bed, but Geralt, quick as a snake, reached out and stopped the movement.

 

“I'm not going to leave you, Emhyr, what do you think we've been doing for the last month? Do you think I often trust someone well enough to allow them to tie me up and fuck me?”

 

“No, I, of course not.” Emhyr, a master of words, could not see a way out of this conversation.

 

Geralt paused, then said quietly, “I can tell you why I came back, why I stay, if you wish?”

 

“No. No, I know why,” Emhyr said, a little desperately, _gods above and below, please don't say it._ He made himself look up long enough to meet Geralt's steady gaze. The witcher searched his face for moment before nodding and freeing Emhyr from his grip.

 

By the time Emhyr had bathed and dressed, he felt a little more like himself.

 

He found Geralt in the smaller sitting room, surrounded by herbs and small leather pouches.

 

“My men tell me that there is a town to the north, a little way from Veitack that has been plagued by a creature that is eating villagers. Apparently they have started sacrificing volunteers to it to stop it slaughtering the whole town.”

 

“Volunteers?” Geralt snorted, “Very well, it is a long ride, but I shouldn't be gone longer than three weeks.”

 

Emhyr nodded carefully, “Cirilla should be on her way back to Vizima by then.” He then turned to return to his study.

 

“Emhyr!” Geralt called as he was almost through the door.

 

The emperor stopped but did not turn.

 

“I will come back.”

 

“I know,” Emhyr replied, and continued out of the room.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

It had been two weeks since Geralt had ridden out, and almost six since Cirilla had set out with two full contingents of Imperial Guards and a full dozen servants on her first official state visit. Emhyr had been pleased by the reports, both in the form of official letters and rumours, bought back from the protectorate states.

 

Emhyr was reading before sleep, a large historical tome that seemed to have been written by someone who had had the concept of historical accuracy explained to them, but thought that it was an idea for lower mortals than he. As such, Emhyr possibly spent more time thinking than reading, and he currently sat with the book in his hands, his eyes following the random weave of the new bed drapes, replaced after Geralt had seen fit to destroy the old ones. It had not occurred to him to have the witcher check the sigils, but perhaps it would be a good idea. Although, he doubted that Geralt would have slept in their bed without checking the accuracy of the wards, so no doubt they were fine.

 

His mind stuttered to a halt, horrified at the turn of his thoughts: _their bed._ T hat Geralt had become so enmeshed into his life that he did not question that he belonged here, _here,_ in the emperor's very bed, asleep at his back with his swords within reach.

 

 _I will have him killed_ , he thought, with cold certainty: the risk of such weakness to all he had built was just too great, _Cirilla will be upset but the Path is dangerous – an early death is virtually inevitable._

 

And, almost immediately on the heels of that thought, _I cannot._

 

Emhyr bowed his head. _I cannot, I cannot._

 

After a while he blew out the candles and lay down to sleep, or at least to wait for dawn to come.

 

 

~*~*~

 

 

Geralt returned on the sixteen day, entering Emhyr's study without the benefit of a knock or seemingly stopping for a bath.

 

Something in Emhyr that he was loathe to study too closely unclenched at the sight of the witcher standing whole before him, covered in road dust and smelling faintly of horse.

 

He turned his head slightly to address the two servants that had been attending him, “Leave us.”

 

He then rose from his chair and stalked around his desk, reaching a visibly amused Geralt before the servants had fully made it out of the room. Emhyr took two handfuls of the witcher's jacket and pushed him backwards until he hit the wall. Geralt was smirking at him by this time, “Miss me?” he asked, with insufferable smugness.

 

“Yes,” Emhyr half snarled and then initiated a bruising kiss. He wrapped one hand in Geralt's hair and using the other to unlace his breeches, taking the other man's cock in his hand and stroking roughly as Geralt became fully hard.

 

“This,” Geralt started before swallowing heavily and trying again, “This usually goes a little smoother with some oil...” He suggested.

 

“ _Shut up_ ,” hissed Emhyr, twisting his hand on the end of every stroke in a way that made Geralt gasp.

 

Geralt was breathing unsteadily by now and Emhyr, knowing that they probably had less than four minutes before they were interrupted, sped up in an attempt to bring Geralt to completion as quickly as he was able.

 

 _Sixteen days_ , he thought to himself, half in anger, half in resignation, _sixteen days without this man and all_ _Emhyr var_ _Emreis'_ _vaulted self-control was undone._

 

Emhyr gritted his teeth and leaned closer still to whisper into Geralt's ear, “ _I will kill anyone who touches you.”_ The witcher moaned and jerked in his hand as he spilt his seed in hot, messy spurts.

 

Geralt hung there, mostly supported by Emhyr while the emperor quickly cleaned him up and laced him back into his breeches.

 

“Come, sit down.” He said as he guided him over to the chair in front of his desk, Geralt still somewhat distracted by his own pleasure, did not question the haste.

 

Emhyr then went back to his side of the desk and had enough to time sit down and compose himself before there was a knock on the door and an obviously excited Crown Princess entered without announcing herself.

 

“Geralt! When did you get here?” Cirilla queried, before stopping three feet short of the desk, the smile gradually falling from her face.

 

Emhyr kept his expression neutral and his eyes on his daughter, but he could see that Geralt had abruptly sat forward at the sound of Cirilla's voice and was now staring at her where she stood in the middle of the room. She looked from Emhyr to Geralt and back again, understanding dawning along with acute embarrassment. In the corner of his eye he could see the tips of Geralt's ears turning pink.

 

“Cirilla, Geralt and I were just discussing some business, but perhaps you would care to join us for dinner?”

 

She fixed both of them with a hard gaze, nodded shortly and turned and left the room with a poise well suited to his Heir.

 

Geralt turned on him once her footsteps had faded.

 

“You _knew!”_ He accused.

 

Emhyr resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “No Geralt, I had no clue that the Crown Princess was in residence, nor that she would seek you out once her attendants informed her that you had shortly arrived at the palace. Really, would you rather have had this particular conversation over dinner? Now, I believe Mererid has drawn you a bath, unless you'd prefer to go down to the hot springs?”

 

Geralt looked away, but Emhyr could see the laughter in his eyes as he did so.

 

“Yes, your majesty,” he replied, composed enough now to execute a mocking bow before heading towards Emhyr's suite of rooms. Well, _their_ suite of rooms would be a more accurate description, even if it was one he used only in the privacy of his own mind.

 

Emhyr watched him go, staring at the space where Geralt had sat long after he had left the room, a smile tugging at his lips.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [SlumberousTrash ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlumberousTrash/pseuds/SlumberousTrash), who is very understanding about my confusion around how apostrophes work.
> 
> This continues to be all [astolat's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat) fault and you should go read all of her [Witcher fic](http://archiveofourown.org/series/621487) because if we leave enough comments maybe she will write more...
> 
> As far as canon goes, I have read half of one of the books and astolat's fics. That's it. So, er, sorry?
> 
> I have a [tumblr](http://xpityx.tumblr.com/)! Prompts are welcome :)


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